


To fight this war (without weapons)

by bistiles (alis)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (sorta?), Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Stiles, F/M, Gen, Hurt Derek, Hurt Derek Hale, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Murder, Panic Attacks, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Takes Care Of Derek, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alis/pseuds/bistiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Please don't bleed out on my Jeep seat again,” Stiles blurts out nervously because what’s he even supposed to say to a dying man? “I'll puke for sure this time." </p><p>“Still... Not dead,” Derek says without opening his eyes, but giving what could maybe be a smirk. Or his face is having spasms. Stiles isn’t sure.</p><p>“Ha ha, look, he has a sense of humor. What a great time to grow one. When you’re dying. In my Jeep.”</p><p>--</p><p>Stiles and the pack is facing a necromancer, and Derek gets severely injured. But to save Derek's life, Stiles has to make some hard choices. And they might not be as easy to live with as Stiles thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To fight this war (without weapons)

**Author's Note:**

> **Anon asked: "Prompt please! 'Please don't bleed out on my Jeeps seat again, I'll puke for sure this time.' Stiles/Derek"**
> 
> _I’m not watching the new TW season, but I picked some things from it, so here. There’s some S5 vibe to it (but nothing direct related, promise). This isn't really based anywhere in the timeline, so yeah._  
>    
>  Unbeta'ed!  
>    
>  Go have fun.

It should be funny how often Stiles is running – often _screaming –_ for his life, but it isn’t. It really isn’t. Maybe if this was a movie or a tacky, badly scripted TV show, Stiles could maybe have a laugh or two. As it is, he doesn’t even find it remotely amusing.

It seems that, no matter what Stiles does, there’s always some supernatural asshole trying to kill him. Or kill someone on the pack. Or kill him _and_ everybody on the pack. Or just generally going on murder sprees indiscriminately. Really it’s sad.

Sad and fucking terrifying.

So since it’s Thursday, he’s obviously trying not to die. As usual.

This time he's hiding inside a smelly, abandoned room, of what used to be an office building. He guessed that twenty years back someone had thought it would be a good idea to go and try to start a business in Beacon Hills. Bad choice. Whatever the place used to be, it went under, leaving behind a dusty building half collapsing on itself. The perfect scenario for the horror movie that is Stiles’ life.

He tiptoes around the room, trying to find a good place to duck and hide, and keep himself safe. He’s lucky most of the desks and chairs are still around, or broken pieces of such, buried under debris and dirty. It’s disgusting and possibly hazardous, but Stiles isn’t in a position to complain.

“Oh my God, what the hell is this smell?” Stiles complains under his breath, immediately regretting making a sound. He holds his breath and waits immobile for something to come crashing after him, but when nothing happens, he keeps searching.

There’s something dead inside the room that smells like the devil himself is putrefying – hopefully it’s an animal carcass and not a dead body – but it could be worse. Stiles has had worse.

He ducks under a turned half-broken cabinet that offers enough protection for him to be hidden from sight, though he knows he can do nothing about his heartbeat or his scent. It’s probably useless to be hiding like this, but that’s the best he can do under the circumstances. His baseball bat broke right in the beginning of the fight, shattered to pieces on the head of what looked like one of the undead. The bat had obviously been was useless.

Time passes slowly as he sits in silence, and it’s hard to keep himself from moving around and making noise. Being quiet was never something Stiles was good at, especially not when he’s stressed and afraid. He wants to run to his Jeep and drive as fast as he can away from this site, but he knows better than to go and try to escape. For one, he knows he’ll end up attracting his enemies and becoming monster chow. For another, he needs to give the rest of the pack a ride.

Stiles doesn’t know how long has passed – he doesn’t have his phone with him – but it’s long enough for his legs to fall asleep and his back to start aching. He almost throws caution to the wind and goes looking for his friends, when he hears steps outside his room, and then...the door opens and shuts once more . Hugging his knees, Stiles waits, breathing as silently as he can, though he knows his heart is jack-rabbiting inside his chest. Every creature with supernatural hearing could hear it in a ten miles radius.

“Stiles, I know you’re here, come out,” Scott sounds exhausted, and Stiles almost sobs in relief.

He crawls from under the cabinet and staggers in Scott’s general direction. It’s too dark to see properly, but he can identify Scott’s silhouette.

“Jesus, man, you almost scared me to death here,” Stiles replies as he comes closer. He hears Scott’s snort of laughter and smiles in return. He knows Scott can see him anyway.

“Yeah, I could hear your heartbeat going insane. Thought you were going to be eaten?”

“Of course I thought that!” Stiles doesn’t have one ounce of shame in him to admit that the prospect of being maimed scares him. “What happened to the undead and that creepy necromancer?”

“Gone. Well, the undead is dead; Boyd torn it to pieces with Liam’s help. The necromancer fled as soon as it happened. Erica tried to track it but lost their trail when they just vanished.”

Stiles is close enough to see Scott now, and he looks fine. There’s blood on him but any wounds are already long healed. The perks of being a True Alpha.

“Damn, he’s going to come back to fuck with us, won’t he?

Scott shrugs and nods, and Stiles groans. He only wanted a full night of undisturbed sleep. They start to make their way out of the room and into the corridor. Now that Stiles knows he’s (temporarily) safe, the exertion of the evening crashes on him, making him yawn.

“I’m assuming that your calmness means the pack is alright,” Stiles comments as they go down the stairs. Stiles doesn’t remember going up in the first place, but then, he was running for his life.

“Yeah, I mean… Kinda? Isaac is healing, and I think Boyd attacked Aiden by mistake.”

“Mistake? Really Scott?”

Stiles snorts amused by Scott inability to see that Boyd is pretty much waiting for any opportunity to get Aiden and Ethan back. They keep themselves apart at all times, and it would be kind of comical, if it wasn’t sad. He’s sure that the twins didn’t pick a full on fight with Erica, Isaac and Boyd because of Scott. And probably because Derek promised them evisceration and pain, or something.

Scott, bless his heart, gives Stiles his most genuine confused look.

“What do you mean?” He asks. Scott inclines his head to the side, and stares at Stiles wide-eyed. The look on his face is very puppy like, something Stiles has, in fact, informed Scott of on several occasions.

“Nothing. Go on. What about the others?”

“I lost Derek and Kira in the battle, but I don’t think they are dead.”

That makes Stiles side-eye Scott in judgment.

“You think?”

There’s a very suspicious hole in a wall close to the lobby that Stiles doesn’t remember seeing when he first arrived. It looks like something hit it with enough force to go through it. Or, more accurately, someone hit it.

“I would know if they are dead, probably. I don’t know if they are unharmed though,” Scott explains, and Stiles notices he looks tired. It’s been awhile since Stiles saw Scott looking so spent.

“You seem awfully calm talking about the possibility of them being maimed,” Stiles says back. The air outside is cold, and it makes him shiver. He’s only wearing a hoodie over a long-sleeved shirt. It’s just not enough layers to keep the cool air at bay.

Scott opens his mouth to say something, but freezes dead in his tracks. Stiles stops with him, stumbling ungracefully, and follows Scott’s line of vision.

There are two people by his Jeep. One looks like Kira and the other...

“Is that Derek…?” Stiles asks, squinting at the Derek. He’s holding himself in a weird way, like he can’t quite support his own weight. Kira is waving at them, gesturing for them to come closer.

“Yeah, and he’s injured,” Scott states with worry, and jogs to them.

Stiles follows, groaning at the sight.

“Thank God. I tried calling you both, but you wouldn’t answer, and I almost picked the lock of the Jeep and–” Kira would have kept babbling on and on, but Scott holds her, and she relaxes in his arms.

“Hey, not cool!” Stiles exclaims glaring at her for good measure, before looking at Derek.

He looks dead on his feet, but then that’s a look that he often has. There’s a huge gash on his side, slowly oozing blood and black goo. It looks like wolfsbane.

“Ew, this won’t ever not look disgusting,” Stiles comments, and Derek doesn’t really react except for glaring at him, “What happened?”

“What do you think?” Derek all but growls, heaving a breath as if talking pains him. It probably does, “Necromancer got me.”

Stiles tries to snap back at him, he really does, but Derek decides that’s the optimal moment to dramatically slide to the floor.

Scott is by his side in an instant, supporting him up as Derek staggers, seeming unable to hold himself upright any longer. His legs are trembling and uncoordinated, Stiles notices with detached horror, like a newborn giraffe. A very bloody, mostly dead baby giraffe. Maybe a baby giraffe after falling victim to a hungry lion. If said lion had-

“ –les! Stiles!” Stiles snaps out of his gore induced trance and looks at Scott, who has Derek still propped up against his body. “Dude, what the hell? Open the door!”

Stiles scrambles for the keys in his pocket, skidding on the gravel as he runs to open the passenger door for Scott, who’s half dragging, half carrying Derek. It takes a bit of maneuvering but after a moment, they manage to sit Derek inside.

“Aw man, why is it always my Jeep? Cleaning bills are a bitch, did you know that?” Stiles complains, as Derek slowly bleeds.

Scott doesn’t say anything, just gives Stiles his best reproachful look, and Stiles feels chastised. Maybe. About 15% chastised, at best.

“Just take Derek to the clinic. Alan will know what to do,” Scott instructs, and Stiles just bitch faces him because really? Deaton _will_ know what to do. He’ll also be cryptic as fuck about it.

“What am I now? The pack’s driver? And where are you going? Aren’t you coming with me?”

Scott shakes his head, already walking back to where Kira is standing awkwardly.

“I need to take Kira home, man.”

“What, so?”, Stiles scoffs, “I can give you two a ride home.”

Scott looks slightly pained, like he isn’t sure how to proceed about it. Kira shuffles a bit.

“Gotta check if everything is okay too,” Scott says, hugging Kira again, who immediately snuggles against him. They are so sweet together it makes Stiles want to rip his eyes out and coo at them.

He’s about to insist, when Scott gives Stiles a meaningful look. They have several meaningful looks, they have an entire language based on facial expressions and body language. So Stiles knows what that look means: that Scott has plans. Sex plans. So he isn’t just taking Kira home and – Oh _wow_.

Far be it for Stiles to cockblock his best friend. Well again. Since he has done it several times before.

“Okay, fine. I’m going to play ambulance then. Be careful, and use protection!”

Scott’s groans are cut by the rumbling engine of the Jeep as Stiles pulls away and starts to drive to the animal clinic.

##

Beacon Hills is a very, very small town, but contrary to popular belief, it can take more than five minutes to cross the city.

Especially when your Jeep breaks down in the middle of a side road and refuses to work again.

“Why? Why does this happen to me? I am a good person,” Stiles grumbles, and glares at the sky as it starts drizzling, “What? I am, you asshole! I hope you know I hate you.” Stiles snarks to the skies, at no deity in particular. For all he cares, they are all assholes.

In response, the rain starts to fall harder.

Stiles punches the steering wheel, yelping when it does more damage to his hand than anything else. If he didn’t love his car, he would be very angry right now. But he does love that beautiful piece of blue junk, even when it refuses to work and he has a half dead Derek Hale in his passenger seat.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” Stiles tells unconscious Derek, but unconscious Derek doesn’t answer. Not that conscious Derek is that much of a conversationalist himself, “Seriously it’s always you. Always.”

Stiles opens his door and jumps outside, stumbling a bit. Derek looks sickly pale and bloody, and Stiles shouldn’t feel as disgruntled as he does at the sight, but it never changes. Seeing Derek hurt was a common occurrence; the guy had a practically nonexistent sense of self-preservation, but it still rattles Stiles. Scratch that, it made him furious.

“I should leave you for the dead, that’s what I should do,” Stiles grumbles, picking his flashlight under his seat, “I don’t know why I bother saving your ass if you always get fucked up again anyway.”

He pops the hood open and is greeted by a cloud of dark smoke. He has a strong feeling that he isn’t going to be able to fix that with duct tape. He closes the hood, leaning over it and rests his head against the wet metal for a moment, thinking. He’s too far to carry Derek, not that he’s strong enough anyway. Plus, it’s raining. He needs someone to tow the Jeep, and he needs someone to take Derek to Deaton.

He goes back inside the car, already soaked and miserable. With wet fingers, he pulls his phone from his pocket, cursing as the wetness makes the touchscreen not work as it should. He managed to dials Scott, though.

His phone must be turned off, because the call goes straight to voicemail. Just amazing. Great. Stellar.

“What’s wrong with you anyway?” Stiles asks Derek’s unconscious form, not expecting or wanting a response. He’s too busy sending Scott five messages in a row. Kira too. Also his dad, Lydia, Liam and basically everyone in the pack so someone come and help him out, “You’re always getting mauled when there’s a fight! You’re either outstandingly bad at the whole fighting business – which is very possible – or you’re just a self-sacrificing imbecile with a death wish the size of the entire California.”

“I don’... Have a death wish...” Derek answers back, and Stiles almost drops his phone.

“Holy fucking – Warn a guy before coming back from the land of dead, you asshole,” Stiles yells, “You just... Stay there, okay? I’m going to call my dad or something."

“Not... Dead,” Derek gives him the closes to a death glare he can. Looks kinda sad when his face is slack with pain.

Stiles doesn’t say anything back Derek’s reply, though he does hear Derek saying a “It’s not like I can go anywhere” under his breath. Nice. Dying Derek was now apparently sassy Derek. What a development, Stiles thinks, dialing his dad at the station.

“Hey-o, Daddy-o, I need help,” Stiles says as soon as his dad picks up the phone and the long suffering sigh is all he receives in reply.

“What did you do now, Stiles?”

“Me? Nothing. Jeep tho is dead on a side road close to the Interstate. I kinda need rescue,” Stiles quips, thumping the car’s panel with his fist gently. Gently. He loves his Jeep too much to cause it damage.

“Call the tow truck. Why are you calling me instead of the tow truck?”

“I have a half dead Derek in my passenger seat, and I don’t think the trucker should see that...?”

“... I’m going with Parrish.”

Stiles ends the call and turns to Derek. He’s slumped in his seat, head lolling on the headrest, looking too tired to properly hold his head upright. He’s holding his side gingerly, but that isn’t doing much to stop the slow bleeding. There’s blood pooling at his feet, and Stiles doesn’t even want to imagine how saturated the seat’s upholstered must be.

"Please don't bleed out on my Jeep seat again,” Stiles blurts out nervously because what’s he even supposed to say to a dying man? “I'll puke for sure this time."

Derek huffs, which could be a laugh or a growl, and closes his eyes for a moment. Stiles frets half rushing to Derek’s side. He’s going to be so pissed if Derek dies with that being the last thing Stiles told him. There’s probably a unwritten, unacknowledged book of things Stiles wants to tell Derek, goddammit.

“Still... Not dead,” Derek says without opening his eyes, but giving what could maybe be a smirk. Or his face is having spasms. Stiles isn’t sure.

“Ha ha, look, he has a sense of humor. What a great time to grow one. When you’re dying. In my Jeep.”

Derek doesn’t dignify to answer, he just opens his eyes and pins Stiles with a stare. “How long...” Derek pauses and dry swallows. He looks thirsty, “...before your dad comes?”

“I don’t know fifteen, twenty minutes? Do you think you’ll...?”

“Die inside... Your car? I don’t know, Stiles.”

“Yeah, great. How about not dying at all, Buddy?”

Stiles leans over to open the glove compartment and reels back, startled. Derek smells strongly of blood – something that was impossible not to notice confined inside a car – but he’s also giving off a weird smell, sweet and disgusting, like decay.

Scared, Stiles just stares at Derek for a moment, who just stares back, until Stiles moves again, opening the glove compartment and pulling a bottle of water out of it.

“You don’t look good, man,” Stiles says and then winces, because wow. Tact. Where did he leave his?

He trusts the water bottle at Derek, who just looks at it, but doesn’t move to pick it up. Stiles realizes that his right arm looks weird, and that his left hand is pressing on the wound. Derek doesn’t ask Stiles for help.

“I don’t _feel_ good,” Derek says, and his voice is tired, and Stiles has seen Derek hurt. Really hurt. But he has never seen Derek like this. So... Weak.

“Here, man,” He uncaps the bottle and holds it in Derek’s general direction, but Derek just shakes his head slightly. “Drink the damn water, you look like you need it.”

Derek glares at him, takes a deep breath and winces, “The only thing stopping me from bleeding, uhng, bleeding all over your precious Jeep is my hand.”

“Wow, thanks,” Stiles glares right back, buying himself time, “My cleaning bills sure thank you.”

Stiles sighs, and knows what’s the logical, the good thing to do, but he isn’t sure Derek isn’t going to bite his arm off for trying. Though he looks too dead to even rip things with his teeth as it is.

So Stiles raises the bottle to Derek’s lips, slowly, giving him time to just growl at Stiles if he feels like it. He doesn’t though. He just stares at Stiles in surprise for a moment, before accepting the water. He drinks slowly, and Stiles tries not to accidentally drown Derek with it. Stiles’ hand is shaking a bit for some reason, and it’s annoying.

“... Thank you,” Derek says after he’s finished, and Stiles feels his heart lurch inside his chest.

So many things to say. And no courage at all.

##

Derek blacks out soon after the water and rouses when the Sheriff pulls up beside the Jeep. Stiles has never felt more relieved in his life.

Moving Derek from the Jeep into the backseat of the police car is difficult, and not only because Derek wasn’t all that coherent anymore, but because he was so out of it he openly whimpered in pain. Stiles’ heart breaks to see a grown ass man making sounds like that, but Derek is too far gone to contain his emotions. That alone is worrying, because Derek never unwinds enough to show weakness.

He throws up halfway into the car, black foul-smelling goo hitting the ground with a sickening splash. That just makes things worse.

Maybe the worst part is how Derek is writhing, in the back seat, and how he only stops when Stiles touches his forehead, trying to shush him enough so they can fold his legs enough to close the car door.

So that’s why Stiles is now sitting on the back sit of the patrol’s car, with Derek lying, completely unconscious, in his lap, one hand pressing the wound on his side, as much as this is making Stiles queasy. Jordan stays with the Jeep, waiting for the tow truck. Stiles isn’t happy with that – he doesn’t want to leave Betsy behind – he but there isn’t much Stiles can do. Not when it became obvious really fast that Derek wasn’t quieting down away from Stiles.

Part of Stiles doesn’t want to really think about why Derek only relaxed when Stiles touched him. But part of him, the bigger, noisier part, can’t stop wondering. Because Derek never really relaxes around anyone; he never lets his guard down, especially not when he’s vulnerable. He’s still bleeding.

But… Then that’s not completely true, is it? Stiles rubs his eyes, and looks down at Derek’s pained expression. He’s frowning even while unconscious, the corners of his lips pulling down. He must be in pain, Stiles thinks idly, and raises one hand to smooth the wrinkles in his forehead. He pulls back when he remembers that he isn’t alone inside the car.

His dad is looking in the rearview.. Of course he is. Stiles glares at him, or tries to. The Sheriff doesn’t seem particularly impressed.

“He holding on there, Son?” John asks, and Stiles bites his tongue, tries not to let the impending freak out slip past his lips.

“Yeah. He’s still breathing,” Stiles says, and his dad hums in acknowledgment. He sounds worried.

They are driving as fast as the dirt road allows them to. Once they hit the roads, it’ll be faster, Stiles hopes. He looks at Derek, at how labored his breathing is. He doesn’t seem to be healing, or he isn’t healing fast enough. He wonders if Deaton has the necessary countermeasures for whatever is hurting Derek.

“Relax, Kiddo,” His dad says, and Stiles looks up again, startled out of his own thoughts, “He’s going to be fine.”

“Yeah, well, I would rather he didn’t die on me,” Stiles quips, and he sees his dad frowning in the rearview, “What?”

John shakes his head, eyeing the road again. They can’t see the road yet, but it must be close now.

“You know, one day I asked Scott about you and Derek,” The Sheriff says casually. Too casually. Stiles scowls at his reflection.

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you two had a thing,” His dad says, and Stiles is shocked at the completely blasé tone he’s using. Like he didn’t just say he _asked Scott about Stiles in a relationship with Derek freaking Hale._

“Come again now?!”

The Sheriff shrugs, unabashed. He doesn’t even seem to be slightly bothered by the perspective of Stiles being with Derek. He just seems mild curious.

“It was some time ago. I thought you two had a thing, by the way you were always bickering, but always kind of gravitating toward each other?”

“I don’t – We don’t – I’m… I don’t even know what to tell you.”

“Well, I’m not wrong, am I?” His dad remarks in a mild tone.

Stiles just gapes at him through the rearview, and he’s about to say something when he sees it. The road. The Sheriff pushes the pedal to the floor, speeding up with the sirens blazing.

They don’t say anything for several seconds, the car speeding through the night. Deaton’s clinic isn’t far, but each minute seems to last far longer than it should. Stiles puts his fingers on Derek’s pulse point, feeling it beating against his digits.

“It’s not like that, Dad,” Stiles says, and John doesn’t reply. He just drives, as the second stretches in the silence, “It isn’t!” Stiles repeats.

The Sheriff and shakes his head, and he makes a sharp turn, and Stiles has to support Derek’s body so it isn’t badly jolted.

“Stiles, I’m not saying anything. But I’ve never seen you so panicked. When you’re scared of losing someone? You’re stunned into inaction. I’ve seen it before, several times.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, because it’s true. His mind works on overdrive when something like this happens, and he just stands there, terrified and conflicted, incapable of moving until someone says something. Derek’s “death” in Mexico flashes through his mind, as does Lydia’s close call. It is true.

“But today? You were pale, and shaking, but you were moving. I think it was the first time ever I saw you moving when being this terrified.”

Sheriff stops talking, and Stiles doesn’t hurry to fill in the silence. He doesn’t know how. He isn’t sure what exactly he’s supposed to take from what his father is saying. Hell, Stiles isn’t sure he wants to understand at all.

His dad seems to feel his insecurity, because he just shakes his head, makes an undefined soothing noise on the back of his throat.

“It’s scary, I know,” He says, like they are both on the same page about whatever he is saying. The scary thing is, Stiles is, “It’s gonna be fine, son. You’re both gonna be fine.”

##

One look at Deaton’s face and Stiles knows they are in trouble.

The other man is walking around, taking vials and weird powders, mixing them in a flurry of activity, while muttering things under his breath that Stiles couldn’t care less about. Not when Derek is so still, his chest barely rising at each breath.

“So can you fix him or not?” Stiles asks for what feels like years after they arrived. Deaton is in absolute silence since their initial exchange. Stiles is going insane.

“It isn’t a simple matter of ‘fixing’ him, Stiles,” Deaton says, and his tone is harsh, “This is serious black magic; something that shouldn’t even still exist, in the first place.”

Stiles knows his dad is right there in the room with them, looking pained and slightly disgusted, but Stiles can’t contain himself.

“What the hell do you mean by that? Cut your usual philosophical crap; I want to know what need to be done to save him!”

Deaton stops what he’s doing; grinding a foul smelling leaves that Stiles doesn’t recognize. It doesn’t seem really awe inspiring, not when Derek is still slowly bleeding out, looking more and more ashen by the second.

“The magic the necromancer used is rotting Derek’s inside faster than his healing can process,” Deaton says with a hard voice and cold eyes, and Stiles staggers under his words, “He’s dying and I don’t have the tools to stop this.”

Stiles shuts up after this, too shocked to even really understand what Deaton said. His dad moves from the corner where he’s watching, puts a warm hand on his shoulder. Stiles promptly shrugs it off. He doesn’t want comfort, he doesn’t _need_ it, because Derek will pull through.

“What can you do?” Stiles asks with his voice sounding alien to his ears but strong. Decided.

There’s a long pause; Deaton doesn’t stop what he’s doing, that is applying a scream on the wound. It bubbles in a way that is just nauseating to look at, but Stiles doesn’t avert his eyes. He feels like he needs to watch, he needs to see to make sure it will work.

“I’m trying to slow down the rotting so maybe his healing can take care of the damage. I can’t eliminate the magic. But I can try to give Derek time. Maybe… A chance.”

Stiles feels the saliva pooling in his mouth, but he’s frozen in place, to the point where he can’t even swallow. He feels his dad softly calling his name, as he watches Deaton going on with his rituals, but while his body is frozen, his mind is working fast. Stiles might not be even close to have Deaton’s magical knowledge, but there is one thing that Stiles learned early on.

“... If we kill the necromancer, the magic will wear off, won’t it?” Stiles says, and he feels his dad recoiling from him. He doesn’t turn to him, he doesn’t offer an apology or an explanation. There isn’t one.

“Stiles, what are you–”

“Magic usually loses power when the caster is dead,” Deaton says carefully, looking warily at the Sheriff, “It might take a little time, but usually this is how it works.”

Stiles is moving before Deaton even finished talking, and he hears his father cursing and scrambling after him.

“Keep him alive long enough. Keep him alive!” Stiles says over his shoulder, as he bursts out of the examination room and into the reception. His Dad caught up with him when he’s just out the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hid father asks, and he’s all law enforcement for a moment, and he’s looking at Stiles like he’s a stranger.

“I am going to fix this.”

Sheriff squints his eyes, forehead pulled into a permanent scowl. Stiles wants to sidestep him and make a dash for his car, but he remembers he doesn’t have the keys. His father does.

“By taking someone’s life?” His dad– no the _Sheriff_ asks. That’s The Sheriff Voice, that isn’t his father. There’s a little difference, but Stiles knows it.

Stiles steps closer, and he sees how shocked his father is that Stiles is so easily considering murder as a viable option.

“By stopping Derek’s life from being taken,” Stiles replies right back, and he extends a hand, looking his father dead in the eye, “I’ll save Derek; no matter what I need to. And right now, I need the keys.”

His father clutches the keys in his pocket, like he’s afraid Stiles will jump him for it. Stiles might.

“That’s not a choice you can make, you can’t just _murder_ someone–”

“Yes, I can! What, they can just kill someone from my pack, and I am supposed to just sit back and let them?”

“Your pack?” His father repeats, like the sheer concept of pack is so alien he can’t wrap his mind around it, “This isn’t what I taught you; this is murder!”

“I’ve been making harder choices for longer than this, and you know it. I won’t leave Derek for the dead just because you suddenly think that this is something we can fix by taking a fucking necromancer to court–”

“Killing isn’t the answer, Stiles,” His father maintains, looking even more horrified. There’s disappointment and anger there, and Stiles feels himself hurting by all this. But he won’t back down. He can’t.

“You heard Deaton! What else do you think is left?”

“I don’t know, I think you should be looking into alternative choices!”

“You think I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t know _this is the only way?_ ” Stiles is screaming now, full volume. He hopes there’s no one into hearing shot, or it’ll be really hard to explain why the Sheriff and his son are discussing murder, “Don’t give me the keys, I can find another way–”

“I’m not letting you go.”

“Don’t. Don’t try to stop me, because I won’t let you. You can’t ask me not to make this choice, because you know what? I’ve made it before,” And Stiles sees the exact moment his father realizes Stiles has killed before, has taken a life with his own hands, and the sheer memory of it is enough to make Stiles’ stomach revolt, but he keeps going, “And I’ll make it again, because this isn’t your little world of petty criminal and common murder. This is a world where you either kill or you’re killed, and it’s already bad enough that Scott can’t see it, and thinks that everybody can be saved.”

His father doesn’t react for several seconds, as Stiles stares at him, breathing hard and heart beating fast.

“Who _are_ you?” The Sheriff asks low and broken, and Stiles hears himself making an wounded sound in response, but he doesn’t back down, “What happened to you?”

Stiles doesn’t answer. Too many things happened to him. From almost being killed by his best friend, to being beaten on a basement by a friend’s grandfather, from watching his friends die, from being possessed and having blood on his hands without meaning to. Stiles feels old under the weight of his own life, but that’s what he had shaping who he is. His dad might not approve, and maybe he’s father won’t ever forgive him, but it’s too late. It’s way too late now.

“I don’t need your keys anyway,” Stiles says, and he walks away. His dad doesn’t stop him this time, and Stiles doesn’t really want to think if he didn’t because he’s too shocked, or because he suddenly doesn’t care about Stiles anymore. Or whatever is it.

Stiles finds a car, away enough from the vet clinic he can’t see it anymore. He hot-wires it, and speeds up. The pack might not know how to find the necromancer, but Stiles has a hunch, and his hunches are usually right.

##

There’s more Stiles knows: he knows that the necromancer will stick to places with easy access to bodies. He knows that hallowed grounds, or clean sources of magic. The Nemeton is out, even if it is a bit corrupted. The morgue is too busy.

The graveyard is the most obvious, cliche choice possible. Also the right one.

Wolfsbane and mountain ash don’t work on necromancers. Stiles knows that. He also knows that they are hard to pin down, that he has ghouls at his disposal that are hard to put down, and that Stiles is virtually too weak to get him.

Stiles also knows that necromancers don’t heal like werewolves do. They are slower on that process, and it’s way messier. He also knows that a bullet to the head will kill most living or undead things, ghouls included.

There’s a gash on Stiles’ thigh, and he’s bleeding from a cut in his head, where he hit the wall. The necromancer is wheezing on the floor, making horrific noises of pain. It should probably not make Stiles this nauseated, but it does. He isn’t revealing on his pain, not even on bit. But he isn’t exactly sorry.

The ghouls died when Stiles shattered the necromancer’s raven skull with a bullet. The same bullet pierced the necromancer’s chest, and never came on the other side, stuck somewhere inside the guy. Stiles watched in shock as he crumpled on the floor, after a moment of sheer shock at what had happened.

So much magic, only to be taken out by a regular bullet.

Stiles stands up slowly, feeling himself wince at the pain. He has a concussion, maybe, and he should probably do this already. Before he loses his guts.

“Look, I don’t want to do this,” Stiles says as he limps closer to the necromancer on the floor. He can see blood on his mouth, bubbling on the corners of his lips. The bullet must have punctured a lung, “If you can lift the spell, you should.”

The necromancer just makes more noises, none that sound like lifting a spell. Stiles points the muzzle of his gun at the guy again. The gun is Stiles’, bought on the black market. It’s registered to some guy on Alabama who died about thirteen years ago. It cost a small fortune, but Stiles managed to get a discount by helping with some shady business he never shared with anyone. Scott never approved of the gun, but Derek didn’t say anything at all about it. Only made sure Stiles knew how to handle it and helped him pay.

In hindsight, there was just so much Stiles and Derek did for one another. They saved each other’s lives so many times it was almost routine. They got their own back’s needing to ask for it, and they fought _for_ each other way more fiercely than they fought each other.

It is just so obvious, it scares Stiles he managed to ignore it for just so long. Why he did.

“I don’t want to shoot you, but I will,” Stiles says again. He feels dizzy, but the gun is steady, “I will shoot you dead to save Derek, I am not even kidding here. So if you can stop him from becoming a zombie or whatever, you better do it _now_.”

The necromancer looks at Stiles with fear in his eyes, and Stiles doesn’t remember being looked at like this before. Or better yet, he does, when the Nogitsune inhabited his body and stole his autonomy. But that wasn’t really him, or so Stiles liked to tell himself everyday for the sake of his sanity.

“It’s… Too late…” The necromancer says, and smirks with reddened teeth, “Too late…”

“It’s better for you it isn’t, pal. You aren’t getting out of here alive if it is.”

“I... Can’t. Lift it. Your… Wolf dies… With me,” The necromancer draws, and Stiles doesn’t even hesitate before putting a bullet to his leg. The necromancer screams.

“I’m not going to ask you again. This is your last warning. Lift it, or die.”

Stiles thinks for a moment that the necromancer will, but he just starts wheezing – laughing, Stiles realizes after a moment – and doesn’t answer. Stiles grinds his teeth, because he knows his time is running out, he knows it, but it’s one thing to kill when your body isn’t really yours, and it’s another to kill in self defense, but this? His father is right. This is murder.

And yet, Derek is dying, his time is running out, he needs to choose.

“There’s… No way… No way…” The necromancer wheezes, “He’s… Gone… Too late.”

He moves his finger from the side of the gun to the trigger, the safety long released. He aims at the head, square between the eyes, and breaths in. The necromancer isn’t laughing anymore, it’s just watching Stiles like he isn’t sure his taunting was the best way to go, like he might soon beg for his life. Except Stiles doesn’t have the time to wait for him to realize that he’s serious.

“You know, I _am_ sorry.”

“Wait! Stiles!”

There’s a flurry of activity behind Stiles, and he turns on instinct, gun searching for the threat. There’s no threat though, only a disgruntled Scott, half shifted stalking in his direction.

“Give me the gun, Stiles,” Scott says, his voice gentle but authoritative, and Stiles knows immediately what happened.

“You pick your phone when my dad calls you but not when I do? Fuck you, Scott,” Stiles says and he doesn’t even bother to pretend what he’s doing. He just maneuvers enough so he can get the necromancer between him and Stiles, and points the gun at the guy’s head again. The necromancer starts pleading, looking at Scott, knowing salvation will only come that way.

“Don’t do this, Stiles,” Scott pleads, and objectively, Stiles knows that Scott is probably fast enough to disarm him, but he isn’t fast enough to stop him before he shoots.

“Save… Me, Alpha…” The necromancer says over and over again, and Scott looks at him like he is actually considering it. Stiles wants to chuck his gun at Scott’s face.

“Derek is dying! _Derek_ , Scott! We owe him this much!” Stiles calls out, and Scott nods along, “Deaton said there’s nothing he can do.”

“Stiles, I know. I... I called Deaton on his way here. I know.”

“How’s Derek?”

Stiles knows Scott. He knows Scott better than he knows himself, so he sees the moment Scott considers lying. It’s brief and swift, but it’s there, and Stiles shakes his head.

“Don’t even try and tell me that Derek is dead. I know you, and you can’t lie for shit.”

Scott gives him a small smile, that doesn’t reach his eyes. Time is ticking. Time Stiles doesn’t have.

“Will you really let Derek die to spare this guy? This guy who’s trying to kill us for what? Power? Are you, Scott?”

Scott seems torn, open his mouth and closes it. He can see him trying to come up with a good argument, but Stiles knows there is none. He knows it. Scott is grasping at his own morality, but how can you say that your conscience will be clean when you left a friend to die?

“Scott, there isn’t another way. We knew it would come to this one day.”

“There always another way! Deaton said he can buy us time! This isn’t who we are, Stiles.”

“And who are we?” Stiles asks back. He wants to shoot, but he needs Scott to understand first, “Are we people that leave our friends to die so we can play the good Samaritan? Because that’s not who I am. I would never let you die, Scott.”

“I know, Stiles, I know! But–”

“Would you let me die? If it was me, would you?”

Scott freezes, and Stiles knows he’s playing dirty.

“I would never let you die.”

“There isn’t another way, Scott. He said so himself. He said he can’t lift it.”

The necromancer keeps begging, and he rolls to the side, holds to Scott’s boots with one bloody hand. Stiles keeps trained aim and his attention, because he isn’t letting this guy try any tricks. He’ll shoot him first.

“I can… Be good. More useful… Than that omega… Spare me. Spare… Me.”

Scott looks at him, and there’s pity in his eyes. Stiles wants to _scream_.

“Can you stop whatever is wrong with Derek? Don’t lie. I’ll know if you do.”

The necromancer hesitates, and the second draws, and then Scott distracts himself, and the necromancer bolts sitting, hands gripping at Scott’s flesh until there’s blood. Scott screams, and claws at the necromancer, but he’s falling down, and is too slow. The necromancer is rolling away from him with incredible speed, far from his claws. Black blood gushes from the wound.

Stiles waits long enough for the necromancer to stop moving, half crouched away from him, while saying words that Stiles knows will raise the dead.

Stiles pulls the trigger twice.

The necromancer topples to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut, collapsing on himself. Stiles’ ears are ringing from the shot. He crouches beside Scott. The blood running from the wound is red again, and the gash is closing, even if slowly. Scott looks at Stiles, eyes wide.

They don’t say anything, not even when Stiles helps Scott to his feet, or when they make their way out of the graveyard. Kira arrives with a car, Mr. Yukimura’s probably, soon after, and she looks scared for a moment. Scott reassures her, voice tight and low, but Stiles doesn’t bother saying anything. He just gets into the car, sits on the backseat, and waits for them to drive back to the animal clinic.

##

Four days later, and Stiles still hasn’t talked to anyone.

His father is deliberately avoiding Stiles, something that Stiles is both grateful and resents him for. Scott is giving him wide berth, and Stiles suspects it’s more because he is still processing what happened. Deaton called him two days ago, but Stiles didn’t pick up. He waited for the call to go to voicemail, and that’s how he found out that Derek had made it. He was weakened, but alive. He would be fine. Kira messaged right the day after to tell him the necromancer’s body had been taken care of.

He hadn’t heard from Derek as well. Not that he expected to.

Stiles doesn’t sleep much. He stays awake, trying to sort through the noise in his head. He killed someone in self-defense, he tells himself, but does it even matter when he fully intended to kill him anyway? Stiles keeps running different things through his head: Scott might never forgive him, his father might want him sent away. His friends might turn their backs on Stiles, because to them, Stiles isn’t any better than the necromancer he killed.

Doubt sinks its claws on Stiles’ mind, so much he keeps swaying between being forgiven, not needing forgiveness, and panicking at being utterly alone. He’s tearing himself apart, he knows it. But he can’t stop it anyway.

Stiles thought saving Derek was the right thing to do, but at the dead of the night, feeling lonely while he listens to his father walking around the house after another double shift, that maybe he should’ve left him die. And then he feels like screaming, because he isn’t sure he can even imagine what that would be like.

How did he get himself in a situation where there’s no winning?

By the fourth day Stiles is at his breaking point. He’s tired and desperate, and he feels like crying, as much as he feels like clawing his own skin. He dreams about the Nogitsune and the hospital, when he manages to closes his eyes. Nightmares plague him. Exhaustion is consuming him, and Stiles is _tired_. He needs a break, but he isn’t sure he knows how to give himself one.

Stiles is still in bed, covers pulled to his chin, when he hears a soft knock on the door. He doesn’t look up, though he’s curious. No one bothered until now. Why now?

The door opens and close, and a weight sets in the end of his bed. It isn’t touching Stiles, not when he has his legs draw up to his chest, but it’s close enough he can feel their heat.

He looks up. Derek is looking at him.

The stare at each other, as they mutually take the other in. Derek looks tired, like he was really sick and is just getting better. He has dark circle under his eyes, and his beard looks bigger and less groomed than usual. He’s wearing a soft-looking Henley, with a dark green jacket over, and well-worn jeans. He’s looking at Stiles with his forehead pulled in a slight frown, but he doesn’t look angry. In fact, he looks almost fond. Sad. Stiles isn’t sure.

It takes awhile, but eventually Derek seems to have mapped Stiles’ face, and he blinks away with a sigh.

“You look like death,” Derek says, and he looks back at Stiles, “And you smell like it too.”

Stiles is startled by his own amused snort. Derek gives him a small smile.

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’m just waiting for my funeral,” Stiles says back. His voice sounds weird. And he regrets what’s out of his mouth the moment he says it.

Derek scowls at him, and opens his mouth to say something, but Stiles cuts him before he does.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Stiles asks, and he scoots back, sitting up and resting against his headboard. He’s still mostly covered by his blanket, using them as a shield, of sorts.

Derek tilts his head to the side, and doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“I came to thank you.”

“Thank me,” Stiles repeats, and Derek shrugs.

“Deaton filled me in on what happened, once I woke up. Scott told me the rest.”

Ah, Scott. Stiles thinks bitterly. He took his time to talk with Derek, of course. But he didn’t bother talking with Stiles.

Stiles licks his teeth, feeling the fuzziness on them. He doesn’t remember the last time he brushed them. Or even ate, for that matter.

“Scott is worried about you,” Derek ventures, and Stiles snorts in derision, “What.”

Stiles shrugs, picking on a loose thread on his pajama pants. He doesn’t look at Derek. Stiles isn’t even sure he wants Derek here anyway.

“Yeah I am sure he’s really worried about me,” Stiles says, sarcasm dripping, “He really showed that he is with the whole not appearing to talk to me.”

Derek doesn’t say anything in return, and after a moment, Stiles looks up. Derek is staring at him, eyebrows drawn together in an expressive scowl. Stiles feels like laughing at that. Derek has an entire language based on aggressive scowling and expressive eyebrow movements. It’s one of the things that made Stiles notice him, way back. Stiles shakes his head, forcibly stopping himself from going on that line of thoughts.

“I was under the impression that Scott was giving you space,” Derek says mildly after a moment, “He mentioned that you weren’t all that communicative after you sh–” Stiles winces at the mention of killing the necromancer. He can feel his heart beating against the roof of his mouth.

Derek stops, probably noticing Stiles’ reaction. Derek sighs softly, and Stiles turns his head, in shame.

“If you think Scott is blaming you for what you did, he isn’t,” Derek informs him, and Stiles never heard him talk like this. Like he cares.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say for a moment, and he’s even further stunned into silence as Derek scoots closer to him. He hesitates for a moment, before putting one warm hand on Stiles’ leg.

“I think you’re blaming yourself for something that isn’t your fault.”

“I killed him,” Stiles whispers, and he realizes this is the first time he has said it outloud. He killed the necromancer. He doesn’t even know the guy’s name.

“I killed him,” Stiles repeats, and he feels unhinged. Hysterical, “I shot him right in the head, and he’s is dead, how is it not my fault? What makes me different from– from _it_ , what–?”

He can’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth, and panic sets itself solid inside Stiles’ chest. All he can think about is the guilty he felt after the Nogitsune, and he can't stop himself from thinking about what it did while in his body. Was it all the Nogitsune, or was Stiles the most unhinged of them from the start, the most likely to commit murder in cold blood? He can _feel_ the oxygen in his lungs giving space to what feels like lead. His chest is heaving faster and faster, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, as he tries to will himself to slow down. He needs to… He needs…

“Breath, Stiles,” Derek says, one hand solid on Stiles’ back, rubbing circles. He looks awkward and lost, but he also looks determined and solid, and Stiles pulls in one stuttering breath, “That’s good. In and out. C’mon. It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ okay–”

“Stiles, you killed that guy because he was going to kill both you and Scott.”

“I was– I was going to kill him before… Before. Because… B-because…”

“Because if you didn’t I would be dead. I know. For that, I thank you. And I am sorry you had to make this choice.”

Stiles feels like he’s being physically pulled to a halt by Derek’s words. Not even the adrenaline coursing through his veins feels real anymore.

“What…?”

Derek looks doesn’t look kind, not exactly, but there’s softness in his face that Stiles has never seen before. It makes Stiles’ chest tight for a different reason entirely.

“I’m sorry you had to make this kind of choice. Killing is never easy,” Derek says, and Stiles knows that he’s thinking of his own experiences with death. Stiles tries not to think how it must have felt mercy killing a first love, “But I am glad you did it. I would be dead otherwise.”

Stiles chuckles at Derek cheeky tone by the end, and shakes his head.

“Scott didn’t want me to do it.” Derek’s hands feel good on him, so Stiles leans on them a little bit, shamelessly taking the comfort being offered. Derek doesn’t seem to mind.

“Scott believes there’s always a better way of doing things. It’s… Not always true. I am glad he thinks like this; it’s hard enough keeping sight of what’s right when everything is this… Dark. But sometimes Scott’s way of doing things won’t work,” Derek explains, and Stiles is surprised at how insightful Derek sounds. Stiles sometimes forgets that Derek went through his own bit of growing up and changing.

“Yeah… But I don’t know if he knows that. That what I did– I’m not…”

“He knows it,” Derek answers, and his voice is firm, “He knows you didn’t kill that necromancer out of cruelty. And he knows you’re _you,_ Stiles. I know it. We all do.”

For a moment, Stiles doesn’t really know what to do, but he needs to do something, so he surges forward and kisses Derek. His lips are slightly chapped, and his beard still prickles even if it's softer than Stiles thought it would be. Derek doesn’t move, doesn’t even breath, and Stiles pulls back, feeling embarrassed.

“Sorry. Sorry. I don’t– Jesus, fuck adrenaline, it sucks, okay I didn’t mean to– Uhmph!”

And then it’s Derek kissing _him_ , it’s Derek’s mouth moving against his, his tongue sliding easily when Stiles open his lips for Derek. They are touching, hands moving, mapping out each other over the clothes, and Stiles is sure he’s probably dreaming. But Derek’s teeth biting his lower lip, pulling a bit and sucking it before letting go feels very real, and Stiles moans at the feeling.

Stiles is almost climbing Derek’s lap, when Derek breaks the kiss. Stiles blushes at his eagerness, but Derek seems mostly amused by it.

“Uh. Wow,” Stiles mumbles, and Derek chuckles, amused.

“I think we can continue – and talk about this – later. Right now I think you need to talk to Scott and your dad.”

“My dad?”

“He might have mentioned being worried about you when he opened the door for me.”

“Oh.”

“Also you could use a shower.”

Stiles throws his pillow on Derek. He catches it easily, before Stiles stands up, grumbling about Derek being an asshole.

“Are you going to be here when I’m back?” Stiles asks, as he takes some clean clothes from his drawers.

“Yeah.”

Stiles nods and walks to the door, feeling a bit less scared of facing Scott and his dad. Maybe Derek is right, maybe they don’t blame Stiles. But maybe Derek _isn’t_. Oh god, what if he isn’t?

“Stiles?” Derek calls and Stiles startles from his thoughts. He hadn’t even noticed he was still holding a clean underwear in one hand, drawers still open.

“It’s going to be fine,” Derek says, and Stiles feels his throat closing up. Oh god, “I promise you. You’re okay.”

Later, Stiles will feel embarrassed for his reaction, but when he the tears start falling, and Derek quietly holds him without a fuss as he sobs, Stiles can’t really mind it.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah, title based on **Elastic Heart - Sia**
> 
> I was going to go further with this fic, but it's literally way longer than I first planned. WAY longer.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://bistiles.tumblr.com)!


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